The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Seven Sounds Dark Green

I live in a pretty little suburb sloping south over the Pacific ocean. Except when the tourists wash ashore in summer it's dead. Literally. It's one of those seaside towns where most permanent residents are old people preparing for launch. Like Miami Beach except colder and wetter. They're everywhere. On park benches, in the mall, wandering aimlessly along the beaches, eyes staring into oblivion while Nature finally starts whispering her secrets in their ears. And why not? Even if they blabbed who'd believe a wrinkled old fart except another wrinkled old fart? So the atmosphere is unobtrusive, perfect for rambling unleashed and unstable. I was still fighting periodic, irrational irritability and delusions of violent confrontations for trivial offenses from which I always walked away like Chuck Norris. Mighty perilous for a card carrying, knock-kneed coward. Best off by myself.

One afternoon I was walking down the main drag by the beach. More 'drag' than 'main' really. In summer car gawkers choke the strip of tacky, faded shops weary from years of staring out to sea. But they're mostly closed when the sun don't shine which is a lot of the time. I was looking at myself in the store windows as I passed. Couldn't see my bubble. The vampire cast no reflection but I could tell it was still doing its job 'cause mine was sullen and withdrawn. I saw myself walk past the pub which I never used to do. Past the burrito store where the little Chinese girl nods pleasantly and gives you chicken when you ordered beef. Past the sea shell store where the contagiously extroverted owner likes to rush onto the street and hug the business out of people. Past the ice cream store with two life size concrete cows standing guard over the entrance. Past the bakery proclaiming without trace of levity the exclusive use of 'spiritual ingredients.' But not past the window of the Psychic Reading slash Chakra Clinic featuring Palm Readings, Tarot Cards, Crystal Balls and Rune Stones. An odd location for a fortuneteller to set up shop I'd always thought. Never saw anyone go in. Never saw anyone come out. Never even saw anyone stop and try to peer in the window. People who come down here either want to forget the future for a while or already know what it is. So the place always looked marooned, a little silly. This day it struck me as risibly ridiculous. Hey, I know, it's a mafia beach-front! That gave me a bit of a shock. It was the first pure, unadulterated, snort inducing humorous thought I'd had in a long time. I pulled out my cellphone and stepped back into the street. I was going to take a picture to immortalize the moment in case there never was another. Then something else struck me. A truck. A beer truck. It must have been out on delivery to one of the bars at the other end of the strip. When I finally sat back up I could see the corporate crest on the back door as it disappeared over the hill to the west. Storm Coast Brewing. Not my favorite but I would have gratefully taken one on board just then. And how ironic. I spent the greater part of my life looking for the next beer. The one time I wasn't I get hit by a truck load.

After I sat up I tried a few tentative movements and was surprised how good I felt sitting there by the curb. I'd taken harder hits in hockey. And I was a goalie. Seemed awfully quiet. One hesitates to say deathly quiet in this town but it was completely still. My beer truck was the last vehicle to pass by in either direction. There was nobody around anywhere. Eerie, even for this place. Then a shrill voice attacked me on my right flank.

"Are you alright?"

I looked up and saw a gypsy closing fast.